


The sophisticated and the simple

by keeptheearthbelow



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Contemporary AU, F/M, chef!Peeta, food activist!Katniss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-06 22:09:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4238388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keeptheearthbelow/pseuds/keeptheearthbelow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Katniss and Peeta, a young power couple in the modern world of food, approach cooking from different angles but meet cozily in the middle. Written for Prompts in Panem round 6.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The sophisticated and the simple

_The genius of the dishes Mellark creates is in their faithful marriage of the innovative and the timeless, the sophisticated and the simple. His studies with the leading chefs of our day directed him into a surefooted path, and he seems to be perpetually positioned just at the leading edge of epicurean culture. Is his youth to credit, and other bright young things will eventually rise to take their turn to shine? Or, as he tells it, will his wife Katniss Everdeen, a food star in her own right, guide him steadfastly? Only time will tell. Until that day, we are quite confident in naming Peeta Mellark this year’s powerhouse chef under the age of 35._

Peeta closes out of _Capitol_ magazine with a sigh. “You’d think they’d actually do an article about you one of these days instead of just name-dropping you at the end.”

I reopen the tab and study the photo at the top of the article. “But you’re the photogenic one.”

He snorts. “Liar. It’s because they’re afraid of the effect you’ll have on them. They’ll have to take a stand on something besides what’s going to replace cauliflower as the new kale.”

He isn’t entirely wrong. At least the kind of stuff I’m interested in can get press, these days, but it can’t always get traction. _Crazy freegan_ is a label I used to get slapped with for some earlier work I did. More recently it’s _food stamp Cinderella_ , _crusader of the food deserts_ , _purity of purpose reminiscent of Joan of Arc_ … _urban Pocahontas_ might have been the weirdest, and I still don’t know what that was supposed to mean. Either somebody looked up my name and found that it’s a Native term for the plant, or it was an allusion to my “ambiguous ethnic blend,” as we get to call it these days. I’ve usually gotten the impression that interviewers don’t know what to do with me.

Peeta eventually tosses the iPad on the coffee table, finishes off his beer, and sinks back on the couch. He scrubs his hands over his face. “God, Katniss, what am I doing this for?”

He never quite feels confident in himself, which I think helps push him to excel, but these awards and accolades always slightly backfire. I have another swallow of my own beer while trying to figure out what to say to him.

“I mean, they’re not wrong about what I like to cook,” he continues, “but there’s thousands and thousands of hungry people here and I’m not feeding _them_ , so what am I doing?”

“You feed them sometimes,” I point out, taking his hand. “New Year’s” – when he works with other interested chefs to put together gourmet meals at the biggest soup kitchens, trying to provide something celebratory and enticing at what’s often one of the coldest times of the year – “and restaurant week” – when he pissed off the organizers by dropping his prix fixe to wholesale levels and letting it be known that he’ll comp anybody who has an EBT card with them – “and anyway, you’re demonstrating that you can run a business with mainstream appeal while still buying into a better food system. That isn’t nothing.”

We’ve got the resources to take on these kinds of efforts, now. Success is great, but laurels aren’t a very comfortable place to rest for either of us.

He looks into the bottom of his glass moodily. “And we’re a team, anyway,” I remind him. He seems to cheer up, and pulls me into his arms.

His coziness is as good as any mug of hot chocolate, any family kitchen, any hot meal when you’re hungry. I feel him kiss the top of my head.

“So how was your day?” he asks.

“Pretty good, actually,” I say into his chest. “We’re definitely getting somewhere with the idea of giving people a place to cook anything they buy with SNAP or WIC. Less of a hurdle for all the pots and pans and power and water and cooking teachers to be in one place. It doesn’t get rid of the problem of having enough time to cook, but it’s a step, at least.”

It took me a while to realize how lucky I was, growing up, to be in a household where we could cook, even if there wasn’t much else we had. It’s such a simple-sounding thing: having a time and place to cook. It wouldn’t seem like such an impossible ingredient for healthy food.

“So I hope that’s my next big project.” I smile up at him. “How about your day?”

He leans down to kiss me. “I won the most awesome wife award.” I’d tell him he’s ridiculous, but he’s already moved on to kiss the spot under my ear, which replaces my voice with a whimpering sigh. He apparently takes that as encouragement to lay me down on the couch and start kissing his way down my neck. “And I’m going to turn okra into the new cauliflower.”

I can’t help but laugh. “That’s a tall order.”

“Hey, if people keep wanting humble to be trendy, they’re gonna have to work for it.”

I smirk at him and slide a hand between us. “What are you doing with the okra?”

He closes his eyes briefly. “Pan-frying it with Cajun spices and probably selling it for sixteen dollars.”

“Well, that can’t be all there is to it.”

“The dish is on a bed of grits.”

“Mmm.” I will never stop loving grits, which he knows. And I will never stop loving other things, one of which I’m stroking through his pants. “Do the grits have cheese?”

He doesn’t answer, just presses his face into my shoulder. I wait a moment and then shuffle him up to sitting, climb onto his lap, and unzip him. “Peeta?”

“What?”

“Is there going to be cheese on the grits?”

“Is this a metaphor?” he groans.

“No, you goofball.” I roll my eyes.

He laughs. “Oh good, I had no idea what you were talking about. No, no cheese on the grits, because on top of those is a dollop of creamed corn.”

“Oh really,” I say, palming him again.

“Yes, with … jalapenos.”

“Sounds delicious.”

“And the crispy spiced okra is presented on that.” His head falls against the back of the couch.

I slip the tips of my fingers into his boxers and he shivers. “Anything else?”

“I was thinking some watercress. Maybe sorrel. On the top.”

“I predict people will be sold on the okra.” I lean in and kiss him.

He looks at me slightly dizzily when we part. “I think it should have a biscuit on the side.”

I grin and wrap my hand around him. “Always biscuits.”

“Jesus, woman.” His hands are now gravitating up and down my body without much conscious direction on his part.

I cuddle closer to him. “You got anything else cooking?”

He raises his eyebrows at me. “Why, is there something you’re in the mood for?”


End file.
